


Love

by SmolScreamingBirb



Category: SHINee, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cheating, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Consensual Underage Sex, Depressed Yoongi, Depression, Falling In Love, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mentioned Jonghyun, Mentioned Seokjin, My First Fanfic, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Prostitution, Self-Harm, Taehyung Is a Sweetheart, Underage Sex, Underage Substance Use, broken yoongi, do i need to do that twice, i swear it gets better, im sorry, kind of?, pls bear wth me, pls read to the end, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmolScreamingBirb/pseuds/SmolScreamingBirb
Summary: Yoongi knew that love wasn’t something that could last, it was fake and artificial and pointless and so, so stupid.





	

Yoongi knew that love wasn’t something that could last, it was fake and artificial and pointless and so, so stupid.

He first realised this when he watched his dad walk out on him and his mother from their shaggy carpet floor. They were always fighting, like two relentless bloodhounds out to get each other but held back by their leashes; Yoongi thinks that ‘leash’ was him, a child, a physical sentimental rope that kept the two together until it ripped from the tension.

 

He remembers every detail of that first fight he witnessed, it was like every normal day, or at least the 4 year old Min Yoongi thought so. Awoken by inaudible voices coming from that shallow light seeping from the nursery door, the toddler picked himself up to set on a quest for his parents. He expected the norm, small talk he never really understood, delightful laughter and what a child is taught to depict as a ‘happy family’, instead he got deafening shouts, beer bottles flung across the room and a ruined childhood. His mom just sat there. Crying. Blood from the rolling punches mixing with her tears. Shards of glass pricked his stubby feet as he tried to make his way over to her trembling body with innocently wide doe eyes. His father continues to yell insults about what a toddler would only understand as ‘bad words’ while huffing away into the master bedroom, chugging one of the few remaining beer bottles.

“I’m okay baby come here” was all his mother said in a shaky voice that sounded as fragile as a dream. She held his naive frame close to her chest, heaving heavy chuffs and sobs. Even a newborn infant would know that this was not right. Broken furniture, dim lit lights, white noise from the kitchen, the stench of alcohol and iron, crimson smidgens painting every wall of the room; contrasting with the fading plaster, enhancing every colour; and a bleeding, weeping mother, beaten by her lover. The vivid image still haunts him to this day.

 

He remembers the day his father father left. An emotion he could not differentiate between sadness and relief building in the pits of his stomach. The now-8-year old standing at the doorway watching that reving pickup truck caked in mud back up from the porch and make its way to his what adult Yoongi would imagine to most likely be a brothel. He can hear the cries from his mother currently kneeling down, muffled whimpers and snotty wails. He’s gotten used to her cries by now having lived seeing his mother get her tears physically beaten out of her at least once every four days. Deadpanned resting bitch face gazing at his mother’s broken build with no melancholy, those emotions were long replaced with pure unadulterated hatred for that man who was meant to be a father figure for Min Yoongi’s life, what was God thinking. The child can feel laughter bubble in the depths of his stomach while he repeats mantras of “He’s gone now mummy” and “He isn’t gonna hurt us anymore I think”. His father used to beat him too when the woman was not chubby enough to be his personal punching bag. He never understood how such a beautiful lady could fall in ‘love’ with that monster.

 

He remembers the day his mother brought back her first boyfriend. She being a 26 year old single mother with a 10 year old child found that her young body was worth quite the amount on the underground streets of Daegu. She came home while he was attempting to tackle his piles of homework with his free time. The tattered door swinging open to present the two looming figures.

“This is your new dad Yoongi!” She rejoiced in such a happy tone that the child missed too much. He was happy for her.

_‘Happy’_

Her body was covered in black and blue patches even a child could recognize they were bruises. The child had seen her hickeys before, tracing along her collarbone and up her paper thin legs, those were nowhere as gruesome as the bruises looked right now.

The man appeared as somewhat formal, suit in a form of disarray and a shimmering watch on his wrist, the child focusing his gaze on those polished black shoes. Basically he looked like their ticket to getting out of this hell hole of a home.

But Yoongi could recognize that look on his face, it was of his father, another male who thought females were nothing but sex toys and baby-makers that belonged in the kitchen or on the floor as their personal boxing equipment. He could see it in the man’s eyes, smoky grey and dominating. He wore a grin that was too obviously fake. He wasn’t happy for her, he was scared for her. Scared because he could see through his demeanor and she couldn’t, her face was contorted into one of indescribable joy, so desperate for any sentimental attachment that she would latch onto the first guy who offered to use her for anything unrelated to sex, for ‘love’. Love was pointless and fake as fuck after all.

 

He remembers his very first panic attack. It’s a miracle he didn’t get one sooner really. There the 11 year old sat, curled up into a ball hugging his legs ever so tightly, grip turning his knuckles white and hyperventilating into his ripped skinny jeans. The air had become so tight around him, he felt like he was suffocating, tears streaming down his face as he pushed out choked sobs and gasps for oxygen. He felt like shit. Literal shit. Like a goddamn piece of crap and a waste of space and he couldn’t breathe and he really just felt like dying. But he never understood why. No. But god did he really hate existing at the time.

School’s already ended, the only people staying back are training for sports or probably smoking at the back of campus. Thus Min Yoongi finds himself alone and perfectly isolated in the girl’s lavatory, running away from his problems, from the bullies, from that one literature teacher who he remembers banging on his front door, chanting his mother’s stripper name in a slurred tone. Yoongi can’t fucking breathe. Only silent cries and heavy breaths filling the voids between each cubicle, left wondering what the fuck his past life did to deserve this current one, probably commit genocide or something.

 

He remembers the first time he cut himself. He sat in his bathroom with a miniscule razor blade held in his palm. Along with crimson dye. You could smell the iron as it lingered in the surrounding air. Yoongi was just in his tight little boxer briefs as he brought the sharpened edge closer and closer to another inch of his pearly white porcelain skin. There was no “clink” or “shing” sound when they made contact, instead just a smooth silent swipe and out came those scarlet streaks.

Personally Yoongi found it fucking gorgeous, the way it shone so rawly against his ghostly complexion really invigorated the taste of iron he got after picking at the liquid only to dip it onto his palette. But the best part was always cutting. The big climax. It felt like an out of body experience, better than anything else the 12 year-old tween had ever experienced. There are fat tears rolling down his cheeks when he looks up to the bathroom mirror but he can’t feel them. His face was fucking numb, his entire body was. He can’t remember if he meant to cut to such a length where it’s almost visible in casual attire. Tingling with the sensation, laughter building in the depths of his empty stomach. It was so wrong but GOD did it seem right. He wants to hurt. He wants to damage himself so bad it’s a greater pain than the constant roaring in his head.

Drawing sweet blood from the depths of his skin, the droplets crash onto the ceramic bathroom tiles with sounds softer than a pin drop yet at the magnitude of a nuclear bomb. The contrast of brilliant wine red against plaster white flooring almost aroused him; a nasty concoction of disgust and pleasure clawing at the walls of his abdomen. It looks like a murder scene but Yoongi keeps going at it and to him it’s his own little masterpiece, he feels like fucking Picasso. He nicked himself a couple more times, some not even on purpose, just because he’s a tiny brat who’s playing with knives to bring himself to the point of emotional orgasm.

Hours later he finds himself weak at the knees in his own bedroom. Giggling hysterically and having a screaming fit all at once. He loathes himself even more than before. It was such a pitiful act. To be so fucked up to the point where you find your own physical pain more soothing than nothing. Pitiful.

 

He remembers his very first boyfriend. Yoongi was gay and didn’t deny it, so what if he liked the same gender, not like anyone in this fucked up neighbourhood really cared, he however found it very comically ironic, but Min Yoongi had class and wasn’t gonna get together with the first guy who told him he was hot. His first boyfriend was a trial. He was, generally speaking, a decent looking guy. Kim Ki-Bun, resident hottie with a jawline and cheekbones that could cut glass. He was a couple of years older than Yoongi at the time. He took Yoongi in however fucked up the kid was, and well, made him even more fucked up. The young 14-year old was just looking for someone or something to drown out his dramatic teenage angst, and who could be better than the hot son of the owner of the prostitute ring your mother uses to put the little food you have on the table. But Yoongi didn’t care. ‘Key’ was hot and cute and pretty and a really good fuck, it helped him forget about the link between his ‘boyfriend’; or more so fucktoy; and his mother.

In this case the currently blondie didn’t hate his mother, hell he didn’t even dislike her at this point, he just pitied her. There was no love when he looked at her small build, just raw pity. He watched every man she thought could give her and her son another chance at life throw her around as their personal frustration release bag, whether it be for something to destroy or sex. With each new night a new patch of black and blue, Yoongi could see the light in her eyes fade with ever falling sun. The boy wouldn’t stay long to watch her get fucked though, when dusk came he would pack his school books into his torn up ruck sack and run off to his boyfriend’s house to get high off his ass. And then probably have sex after, like really fumbly sex with no meaning other than to bring each other to a certain point of pleasure. It was fun. It was stupid. He was stupid. Well he was reasonably smart, as his teachers say, he had potential to become something, happy, but even they knew the boy was starting to waste away, just like every other angsty teenager, he rebelled. Key gave him a wild side, an edge. Sometimes Yoongi would follow the older after school and sneak into clubs to drown out his misery in alcohol and narcotics of which had names he couldn’t pronounce.

To be frank, Kim Ki-Bum wasn’t that bad at being a boyfriend for a fuckboi of his origin. Sometimes he’d make decent jokes and they’d spend the darkest hours of the night just appreciating each other’s insignificant company. They would make out under the moonlight behind the school campus, where the druggies and junkies went. The younger loved rolling his tongue over the other’s piercings. Whenever they kissed it tasted like cigarette smoke and cherry lollipops. It was exhilarating. Staying over and skipping school wasn’t unusual either. After their kinky sexcapades; on cloud 9 and buzzing from the overstimulation; the teen would wake up in the cheap hotel room with a really sore ass to a mix of scents: coffee, marijuana, beer, cheap cologne, sweat, sex, the list goes on.

But as per usual all good things; especially in the life of Min Yoongi’s life; must come to an end. He was on his way to that spot at the back of campus that led to the darker-than-it-already-is side of Daegu. And there they were. Kim Ki-Bum and Kim Jong-hyun sucking faces like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Of course Yoongi was expecting this. That doesn’t mean it never hurt. The boy took shaky steps towards the couple. “What the fuck” was the only thing he said, in a stuttery, broken voice. His own face contorted into one of complete utter hurt.

“Oh sup babe.”

The redhead simply replied as such, the right-edge of his lip curled into a cold smirk with a sting in his voice that relentlessly bit at Yoongi’s emotions.

“Wanna meet my new bitch”

The phrase rolled off his tongue with zero remorse.

“If you’re still up for it we could have a threesome”

There was nothing in his voice. Absolutely no sentiment.

The lithe blonde threw a singular punch to the older’s face, cracking of bones resonating through the cold air. Deadpanned, he paced away in some tight as pants and his favourite leather jacket that his new ex had bought him, saying it looked cute on the younger. Unfortunately for Yoongi he had unknowingly formed a somewhat sentimental bond to the other. God. He hated the word ‘love’. No. He hated how it was so celebrated. Love isn’t beautiful, it’s morbid and stabs you in the back the moment you take your eyes off it. The idea of it alone makes Yoongi want to hurl. The only thing he heard from the redhead was “You’ll come back just like the rest of them. They all just wanna be fucked and you’re no different babe. I’ll make sure life isn’t the only thing fucking you, whore.”

 

Love is a funny little thing isn’t it.

 

But out of all the fucked up things in Yoongi’s life, there was one thing that somehow kept him alive through the worst of the worst. Kim Taehyung. The kid had a boxy grin that glowed so bright it could compete with the sun and a raspy deep voice that sent fucking shivers down his spine. There was no certain hair colour that the boy kept, ranging from your everyday chocolate mocha to firetruck fucking red, originally getting Yoongi into bleaching and dying his hair in the first place. He was a year or two younger than Yoongi himself but age made no difference to the general exuberant joy that basically was emitted by the passing boy. Yoongi always liked to call it immaturity. Honestly it was just an excuse to push away the fact that he was uncommonly depressed, even if he constantly acknowledged the fact that he was a total waste of oxygen. Min Yoongi was cold, weak, passionless, distant, unresponsive, a soon-to-be delinquent and pretty much dead inside, like a husk, a soulless shell for a body waiting for the sweet release of death. But Taehyung, Kim TaeFuckingHyung. He was quite literally the total opposite. He was the definition of ‘model student’, aced in sports and academia, captain of the football team, got the girls to swoon just by looking back, hell he could play the fucking saxophone too.

But to Yoongi he was that and so so much more, he was the stars and the sun and the moon and everything else in between. You would’ve thought that Taehyung was the Lord’s chosen saviour by the way Yoongi (secretly) looked at the brunette, he was Yoongi’s own salvation after all.

 

He was the boy that told him that he would kill the older’s father himself if he had laid another finger on the other. He would carry the smaller out of his own room bridal style, kicking the door down with that signature boxy grin, giggling as the older would hide his face instead of fighting back. Making dumb excuses so that they could spend time with each other doing whatever the fuck they did, away from the torture chamber fate had decided to be Yoongi’s home.

 

He was the boy that clutched that 11 year-old’s trembling body as he wracked with sobs about how he was condemned to all this pain, this sick hell of a world. Not budging an inch no matter how many times the other would tell him to leave him alone. Then after the older’s breathing had somewhat returned to normal, the kid would pull out those homemade valentine's chocolates from his fanclub of hormonal females to the frail little Yoongi who could only dream of being loved by another.

 

He was the boy that never let go of those white thin, thin wrists with fists clutching a rusty pocket knife so tight, his knuckles would turn white and split. Then they’d just lay on the stained bathroom tiles with the younger caressing Yoongi’s miniscule frame. Sometimes he got cut himself but that was a mere tick bite compared to the shit that Yoongi had gone through, and Taehyung knew that.

 

He was the boy that stayed to watch the 16 year-old blonde break into a life of sex, drugs and alcohol. The first to physically tell Yoongi how his ‘boyfriend’ was a mistake, but fuck as if he could care any less about that. They weeped while screaming at each other from the top of their lungs. Voices becoming choked and stamerred.

 

“He’s just using you for sex Yoongi. You need to stop this.”

“I know.”

 

He was the boy that wrapped his arms around the smaller while he was roaring like a wounded animal about how stupid sentimentality was. Yoongi just cried and cried and cried while the other only rested his chin of those silver locks, pity written on every feature, whispering mantras of _“It’s gonna be okay” “You don’t deserve this” “You’re perfect to me”_. Then only hours later Taehyung had grabbed the legendary fuckboy Kim Ki-Bum by the throat and relentlessly threw punch after punch until neither could tell who’s blood was who's, making sure every profanity rolling off his tongue was heard by the redhead even if he was so bashed up he was probably half-deaf.

 

He was the boy that cradled the smaller in his own arms in the most intimate of moments. No words exchanged, just pure adoration in every touch as his massive palms ran over Yoongi's naked frame. Murmuring only a singular phrase between the panting and moaning “Run away with me”, pressing forehead kisses while he made love to the pale beauty, using only the chilly winter airs from the window kept ajar beside his bed to regulate their body temperatures.

 

He was the boy who threw away his former life for Min Yoongi. Hell, Kim Taehyung fucking pried the latter away from his own life before he could kill himself. With interlocked fingers and adolescent dreams of puppy love, they jumped into a makeshift car, Taehyung throwing Yoongi’s reluctant frail frame onto the passenger seat. They only had a couple sets of clothes, small change enough for at least a week or two and a full tank of gas. They were driving to somewhere. Anywhere really. Anywhere but ‘home’ was good enough for them.

 

He was the boy that sacrificed his own body warmth when they were huddled in the freezing winds of a regular Seoul winter night. Falling into the depths of sleep as they used their own breaths like metronomes to count sheep. They woke up the next day only to find each other in a hospital ward, hypothermia had gotten the best of them. Oh the wonders of being found by a doctor willing to take you in for a second chance at life while you and your boyfriend were half-dead and knocking on the gates to purgatory.

 

And all Yoongi can think of now is how they’re actually surviving in this fucked up world, and also how much he adored rainy days. He admired how the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the droplets would fill in the empty voids of the room with constant ‘pitter patter’. He just melts into the warmth of Taehyung’s body like his own personal internal radiator, easing off in the taller’s favourite sweater and a pair of translucent thigh highs hugging his feminine, fragile legs in their bed of crumpled sheets and mis-matched covers; Seokjin’s gonna yell at him again if they don’t change them.

Taehyung shifts in their position to look down at the blondie with a smile of nothing but raw tenderness stretched across him face with a pair of those sleep induced eyes. There are no words exchanged between the two but they have a full conversation through those simple glances.

 

_"I love you”_

 

Yoongi feels his heart buzz and his face flush. He can’t help but to fall more in that deep, deep cavern we can only call: Love. Because as much as he hates what ‘love’ has done to fuck up his life there is nothing else to say other than that Min Yoongi loves Kim Taehyung.

 

So maybe love isn’t always purely horrific and abhorrent, instead it can be soft like a puppy or fumbly like awkward first-times.

 

Min Yoongi loves Kim Taehyung and Kim Taehyung loves Min Yoongi.

 

And that’s that.

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS MY FIRST FIC AAAAHHHH. I'm just a smol who lives for bottom yoongi tbh. I'm so sorry, the only thing I can do is angst but I'm trying okAY. I swear I love SHINee I really do. Btw this hasn't been beta'd so I might come back to edit some spelling mistakes or add in like lil anecdotes. But thank you for reading lmao


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